


easy like sunday morning

by hamiltrashed



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Because you know I can't help myself, Let's play spot the Hamilton references, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rickyl Writers' Group, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:32:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7091683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick suggests that he and Daryl shower together to save water; at least, that's his excuse. He doesn't really expect Daryl to take him up on the offer.</p>
<p>[Recently changed my pseud from <b>s0urw0lf</b> to hamiltrashed, in case that confused anyone!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	easy like sunday morning

**Author's Note:**

> I only started writing this in, oh... like... February or something. So not long ago at all. Sorry y'all!

Rick is joking, mostly, when he sidles up to Daryl on the porch and murmurs in his ear one Sunday morning that they should shower together. He says something about saving water, maybe, or the environment, as if this planet covered in too much blood is worth rescuing from the jaws of hell anymore. And then he grins at Daryl, something a little lewd, a little dirty.

He expects Daryl to say no. After all, Daryl treats showers as something to be avoided until absolutely necessary (by others’ standards more than his own), and Rick honestly still isn’t sure if they’re at this point yet. A few kisses here and there, a few nervous, curious touches… needless to say, it doesn’t entirely feel like the level has been reached at which you ask someone to get naked with you.

But Rick asks anyway. And Daryl says yes. And so here they are, standing under the spray of the water, Rick trying to avert his eyes so that he doesn’t stare too long while Daryl openly, shamelessly eyes him up and down. Rick feels his cheeks go hot, suddenly a little self-conscious, not of his body but of the way he’s already growing hard under the intensity of Daryl’s stare, and there’s no room now to make a quip about Daryl soaping up the places he can’t really reach.

“Didn’t think you were gonna say yes,” Rick admits quietly with a sheepish half-laugh when Daryl takes one step closer, removing nearly all of the space between them. “We haven’t – I mean, we’re not – are we?”

Rick’s not even sure what he’s saying but maybe Daryl is because he makes a quiet noise that sounds like indignation. “Wanna be.” One hand slowly slides up along Rick’s bicep, trailing through water droplets, gently massaging soap into his skin. His fingers spider their way over Rick’s collarbone, up his neck until his hand cups Rick’s chin. He runs his thumb across Rick’s bottom lip briefly, then circles Rick until he stands behind him, hand tracing along his shoulders all the way around to Rick’s back.

“Good,” Rick finally whispers, shivering. The water is warm, but Daryl touching him makes him tremble.

Daryl leans into him, runs his tongue along Rick’s ear and, in a voice that’s a rumble of gravel and sex, merely says, “Want you.”

It feels like a film in slow motion for just a second, the way Daryl’s hand gradually makes its way down Rick’s spine, the way Rick arches into his touch, the way the water hits his skin and trickles ever downward. And then the lull in the moment breaks and Daryl is shoving him face first against the wall like Rick has prodded awake some kind of animal inside. Daryl is ferocious in the way he drags his teeth across the back of Rick’s neck, bites at his shoulder and grinds against his ass. And it's predatory, wild – the guttural, growling sound that comes from Daryl that makes Rick want him so much, so desperately that he’s closer now to begging than he’s ever been for anything.

A part of him waits for the noise in the back of Daryl’s throat to erupt into a desperate howl, and he lets a whimper of his own escape between his lips even as he gnaws at his bottom one, tries to keep himself from making too much noise. There’s singing in the shower and then there’s fucking in it (which is a lot like music in its own way), and Rick thinks that maybe they’re less likely to get away with this one. But Daryl doesn’t seem to mind.

Rick has already recognised that this is a situation in which he doesn’t get to control everything, or even try to, and if he’s honest with himself, it’s such a fucking relief. There’s a sense of peace in the fact that all he has to do for once is enjoy the fruits of something as opposed to labouring so much that he can’t stand the taste when it’s complete. But this – this is letting go. This is handing the reins to Daryl and telling him to go hard, go fast, make it count. Like Daryl having control is some kind of coup d'état, like there’s revolution in his fingertips, like there’s mutiny on his lips; Rick wants to raise one fist to the sky, rise up, live in the rebellion of Daryl’s body pressed to his.

And there’s an _uprising_ alright, and Daryl’s already got one hand around it, Rick bucking his hips into Daryl’s fist like he won’t get another chance. Surely, there will be others, but this one is the first chance, the first _real_ chance, and Rick feels he has something to prove. Because there are two distinct aches in him. One that feels the way a craving does, the way lust does, like fire in the veins, the jittery anticipation of arousal; that one screams at him to feed it, to get _more_. The other feels like showmanship, like performance, like _ladies and gentleman, playing the role of Desire: Rick Grimes_! That intense little pang of need pushes him to show Daryl exactly how much he wants this, how much he wants _him_ , so that there will be a next time, maybe one that isn’t initiated with a bad joke about a shower and environmentalism.

But, truth be told, he doesn’t really have to try for this one. No, Rick’s body reacts without need for his command. Were it to wait for him, it would have to catch up with the way his thoughts are lazily feeling out the mechanics of this. Instead, while Rick’s mind takes its sweet time lauding how high the flames in the fire between them are, his body steps inside them. His movements become uncontrollable, and there are words on his lips. He’s not quite sure of the meaning of them. They sound vaguely like pleas, like requests, only it’s like listening from underground because his brain is now busy mapping out each point of connection his body is making with Daryl’s. Every inch of his skin that touches every inch of Daryl’s is singing out with hunger and thirst, the kind of covetous, greedy feeling that earns a place in all the best love songs.

Daryl’s hands move to Rick’s chest, and he rakes his nails through the hair there, before dropping them to Rick’s hips. He trails the tips of his fingers up along his sides, nudging Rick’s arms upward too as he goes. He keeps Rick’s hands up against the wall in a perverse imitation of the way Rick might once have frisked a criminal, and _this_ is fucking criminal, the way Daryl pins his body to the shower wall and slides the length of his cock against Rick’s ass. His mouth finds Rick’s ear again. “Gonna fuck you. That okay?”

“Yeah,” Rick says, and it comes out eager, maybe too eager. “Yeah, _please_ , do that, please –”

There’s a low chuckle in his ear and it makes Rick feel a way he can’t really describe, because for one, hearing Daryl laugh is rare enough to document and remember. And for another, it’s a dark little thing, this laugh, predicated not on any real humour but only on the way Rick is desperate for this and Daryl knows it. And then Daryl is talking, and that’s rare, too, his voice a low rush of sound until Rick picks apart the words, makes sense of them.

“Wanted to do this, you don’t know how much. How long. Second I met you, I think, n’you know I was blind with rage when I met you and I still wanted it. Fucked up, ain’t it? Tore me right up, how angry I was at you for Merle, but still kept thinkin’ I could just _fuck_ you so good, Rick. Might’ve been a power thing then, I dunno, but now… now I just want it. Just wanna hear you moaning my name like I know you’re gonna.”

“Jesus fuck,” Rick whispers, and his voice has gone hoarse. He tries to slip one of his arms free of Daryl’s grasp because he needs a hand a little further down, but Daryl doesn’t let him.

Daryl’s tongue licks droplets of water from Rick’s shoulder and he murmurs against his skin, “Don’t touch. Not yet.”

He releases one of Rick’s arms only to reach a hand down between them, to press two wet fingers just past the rim of Rick’s hole. Rick gasps at the sudden intrusion, but far from discomfort, the slight burn is actually pleasant. And there was once, twice maybe, back at the prison and out on the road where Rick struggled to stay quiet beneath blankets, hands moving slow and soft, thighs trembling and muscles tightening around his own fingers while he tried not to consider all the things wanting to get fucked might mean.

He’s past all that now, though, because it matters so little. Society has collapsed and so society plays no role in this; there’s only primal need and the strong urge to satisfy it, and if it feels good, then Rick has no room to care. And if the mere act of _wanting_ Daryl feels good then this, Rick knows, will blow his goddamn mind.

Daryl is gentle at first, stretching him open while Rick tips his forehead against the wall, hums low and heavy to avoid the sounds he really wants to make. But then he goes for it, fingers reaching and twisting, searching until they hit home and Rick rocks backward onto them, makes a sound that borders on a wail. And fuck, it’s embarrassing but it feels so good that Rick’s ability to give a fuck is rapidly evaporating. Let everyone hear, let the whole world know that Daryl is owning him from the inside out and hasn’t even actually fucked him yet. Let every last thing, dead or alive, know that Daryl has but to touch and Rick goes weak-kneed and slack-jawed with want.

“Please,” he breathes, so low that he’s not sure if Daryl hears him over the sound of the shower.

But Daryl’s mouth finds his ear and he whispers, low and rasping in Rick’s ear, “Please what?”

“Just fuck me ‘til I forget my name,” Rick tells him, and Daryl chuckles.

“Gonna waste more water than we save.”

“Fuck the water,” Rick mutters. “I’d drain an ocean right now if you’d just fuck me.”

Daryl pulls his fingers free of Rick and lines himself up in their stead. “Your environmental politics are real inspiring.”

Rick laughs, but it quickly dissolves into a moan when Daryl begins pushing his way inside of him. It hurts, but not quite as much as he thought it might. Daryl is certainly much bigger than his own fingers, but he’s learned now how to relax for himself, and so it’s easier to relax for Daryl, to open up for him, leaning into the shower wall even as Daryl lets go of his arms, and trembling with the feeling of being full and still wanting more.

He hisses out a soft yes and rocks his hips back on Daryl. Daryl’s mouth is back on Rick’s neck in a moment, and Rick is sure he’s leaving marks, wants him to, is craving a reminder that he can have for days to come. He’s forced himself into bravery a lot over the years when sometimes, all he’s wanted to do is let someone else be brave, to let someone else lead. But much harder than trying to protect his ever growing family, much more frightening than killing things that are already dead, are the moments where he realised he wanted Daryl, the moments he’s held himself back, and the moments like these in which he’s let himself be close to him. Now that he’s ready to be claimed again, he’s aching for Daryl to do it.

Daryl’s voice abandons him again; he doesn’t so much talk anymore as grunt Rick’s name against his ear, breath hitching in his throat, thrusting into Rick with abandon so that Rick’s hips hit the wall of the shower every time, his cock sliding against the warm, wet tile with not nearly enough friction. Daryl locks an arm around his chest, fingertips brushing across one nipple for a brief second, the other finally slipping between him and the wall to curl around Rick’s cock again.

Abruptly, Daryl is turning them so that his own back hits the wall with a loud _thump_ , but he’s still holding Rick up, still fucking into him hard, deep, fast. And Rick is desperate now, quite aware that though he could stay in here all day and let himself be fucked until he can’t see straight, they don’t have all that much time. And so he rolls his hips back against Daryl, wanting more and wanting it now, before the water goes cold or somebody comes asking for one of them.

Rick all but tries to ride him standing up and fucks into Daryl’s fist at the same time. Daryl’s hand is rough on him, quick and dirty strokes like Rick used to do when he was a teenager, when the only thing his brain could think of at any given time was how to get off fast enough to not get caught. He feels like that again now, sneaking off to do this with Daryl, only he’s sure it’s no longer a secret with how loudly he’s moaning. The whole of Alexandria must know by now that he’s stretched wide around Daryl, taking everything Daryl will give and fucking loving it. And anybody that might deign to question the dynamics of this might well face the wrong end of Rick’s gun, if only so they learn to hold their tongues.

But Rick’s mind is going blank now, and he thinks maybe his mouth is moving, that Daryl’s name is rolling off his tongue like sin, over and over, the only word that makes sense to him at the present second, the only word that means anything. He’s waited a long damn time for this, for anything more than a kiss and the brush of a hand that promised this but never quite followed through. But now he’s here, his back pressed to Daryl’s chest, and Daryl’s taking him apart so easy that Rick is unsure how he’ll walk away. Not that he has to; he can come back to this day after day now that he knows he can, and he’s sure every time will be better than the last.

Daryl’s teeth find Rick’s earlobe again, tugging at it, and he seems to be reading Rick’s mind. “Gonna do this every day,” he tells him. “Every fuckin’ day.”

Rick laughs, close now to writhing back against him, close now to coming, back arching away from Daryl’s chest. “But not in here,” he says. “Conservation or something.”

“Or something,” Daryl agrees. His arm tightens around Rick and then so does his hand, and their moment of banter dies at the same time Rick comes, a shout of Daryl’s name echoing off the tiles, his knees going weak. He’s caught in a haze as Daryl’s hips drive forward into him again, once, then twice, and he clings to Rick as he comes too, only barely holding the two of them up. He sinks back against the wall and Rick sinks into him.

It’s a long moment of ragged breathing before either of them can move, and Rick nearly does go to his knees then, trying to maintain some semblance of composure, and turning to half collapse into Daryl’s arms. “Waited way too long for this,” he finally says. “Don’t think you know how much I’ve been thinking about it.”

Daryl gives him a wry smile. “Rick Grimes, saving the world and dying for a fuck the whole damn time. Good to know.”

“Gonna be dying tomorrow, too,” Rick tells him. “Just so you know.” He reaches behind Daryl and puts a bar of soap in his hand, but Daryl slides his fingers into Rick’s curls and pulls him in for a surprisingly soft kiss.

“Glad we rehearsed life saving techniques today then,” he murmurs against Rick’s mouth. “We’ll work on the ecosystem tomorrow.”

Rick can’t remember the last time he’s looked forward to a Monday.


End file.
